


Tale as Old as Time

by collarsandplaid



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Bits of fluff, But for like one setting, Canon-Typical Violence, Crowley just wants alcohol, Heaven and Hell are jerks, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Snake!Crowley - Freeform, Some Swearing, asexual characters for an asexual writer, one OC, our own side, snek kisses, withcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-08-12
Packaged: 2020-08-20 06:00:55
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20222980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/collarsandplaid/pseuds/collarsandplaid
Summary: (The Beauty and the Beast-ish AU nobody asked for)After Armageddoff, Heaven and Hell decide Crowley and Aziraphale still need to be taught a lesson. When Crowley gets trapped in the form of a mortal snake, Aziraphale has to figure out how to get his demon back while putting up with a rather dramatic serpent. And Heaven and Hell aren't even done yet.





	Tale as Old as Time

**Author's Note:**

> So as per ushe, another new fandom's strong pull has encouraged me to write and post again. And what a strong pull this was. 
> 
> Don't quite remember how this idea came about except that I wanted Aziraphale to live with, communicate with, and eventually be saved by snake!Crowley. However, I am somewhat nervous about the concept and even moreso about posting a work into such a large and rapidly growing archive (a reason why I never posted anything in the Supernatural tag...)  
So I guess what I'm saying is, let me know what you think? Should I even continue?

The evening finds Aziraphale, as it typically does, inside his bookshop, seated upon his favorite tartan loveseat with his favorite winged cup of cocoa in one hand and a first edition copy of Oscar Wilde’s _The Importance of Being Earnest_ (gifted by the playwright himself) in the other.

It’s a lovely evening, as they typically are, in Soho, the sky already a deep dark blue and bleeding ever darker with pinpricks of light from the strongest of the stars, the first to pierce through both the veil of early night and the gray gloom of London’s air. A refreshing breeze saunters in through the open window, a courteous reminder that tonight will be chilly what with the coming of fall.

He gives a somewhat distracted sigh and fidgets restlessly.

Yes the evening is lovely and he does rather prefer the typical as there are no surprises or annoyances to deter him from his reading. But, if he’s perfectly honest with himself, he’d much rather be having dinner (or at the very least, alcohol, the finest history had to offer) with his hereditary enemy and closest, most precious friend:

Crowley.

Aziraphale sighed again and looked up this time from his book. He glanced to the window, half expecting to hear the familiar roar of the oncoming Bentley and the ensuing screech of its tires as it skidded to a stop haphazardly outside his shop’s door. He glanced next to the door, half wanting the red-haired, yellowed-eyed, sharp-dressed demon to come waltzing with that familiar sway to his hips, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. Last, he stared at his phone, half daring it to ring so that he may hear Crowley’s familiar drawl inviting Aziraphale to a dessert place he just so happened to spot on a stroll through the neighborhood.

To his increasing dismay, none of those outcomes happened and the angel was left alone in the quiet with his cooling cocoa and disregarded book.

Crowley wasn’t coming. Again. That made seven days. Well, six days and 21 hours if he wanted to be exact. Six days and 21 hours and 9 minutes since Aziraphale had seen hair of hide of Crowley.

Granted, in the past, mere centuries had gone by in a blink without even once coming in contact with the demon. It was common even, to wander the Earth and not once cross paths with Crowley for multiple generations. But that was the ancient past – when Aziraphale was terrified of being seen with the fallen angel but unable to stay away completely because this was no ordinary demon.

This was _Crowley_. Crowley who first spoke to him in the Garden of Eden when every instinct should have told him not to; not to address an angel of the Lord because angels smote demons and demons burned angels. Crowley who sought Aziraphale out for company and conversation while brushing shoulders with humans who could never so much as fathom the things he’s seen. Crowley who Aziraphale looked for in a crowd for the very same reason. Crowley who saved Aziraphale’s life and his books, Crowley who escorted him to dinners and accompanied him for drinks. Crowley whose mere presence soothed and elated Aziraphale’s essence with every sidelong glance, every smile. Crowley who defied Hell for humanity, and for Aziraphale. Crowley who Aziraphale chose over Heaven itself. That Crowley. His Crowley.

And ever since the Armageddoff, the two had been near inseparable. No longer fearing their prospective side’s scorn and punishment, Aziraphale and Crowley’s relationship had blossomed beautifully. They could freely walk through London side by side, could bump shoulders and brush hands without the fear of being caught; could revel in each other’s company from night into morning, sharing alcohol and stories and even Aziraphale’s couch or Crowley’s bed, wherever the two happened to collapse (more often wherever Crowley happened to pass out and Aziraphale slouch in carefree drunkenness). And if Crowley happened to wake sprawled over Aziraphale’s lap or Aziraphale curled up against his chest, well, there was immense comfort in knowing the other was safe and alive and _there_.

Of course, it was never more than that. Six thousand years of conditioning, of the constant external rule and internal conflict: that they were enemies; that it went against every law of creation that an angel and demon should “fraternize” let alone find companionship in the other – it was enough to cause hesitation, or at the very least, grudging denial, during every encounter. (The Arrangement, therefore, was a much welcome scapegoat on which they could pin any circumstance of their togetherness, and occasional rescues.)

Now, though the Rule had been broken and was no longer feared, the conditioning, Aziraphale frustratingly found, persisted. He noticed it in the little things; the small gestures. Sometimes, Crowley would reach out – for his hand, his arm, his face – and Aziraphale would unconsciously flinch. Crowley would abort the motion with a fluid wave through the air as if merely swiping away a pesky fly. Sometimes, Aziraphale would gather the courage to lean in closer, just enough to glimpse widening eyes behind dark glasses, before Crowley would stiffly draw away towards something that had suddenly taken his attention. Sometimes, it was so bloody ironic how shy and careful they were around each other that it made Aziraphale want to laugh and cry at the same time.

So while passing another evening without the demon in his shop, on his couch, had not been terribly alarming in the past, was most starting to definitely become worrying now. Both Crowley’s home phone and cell were full with Aziraphale’s message asking where the demon had got off to and when he was expecting to be back and there would be a most delectable bottle of Merlot waiting for him upon his return. His flat was empty during every visit and not even the neighbors had seen him or heard any evidence of his “inspiring” “talks” with his plants.

(Aziraphale did of course water the plants and coo to them that Crowley would most assuredly return to care for them, if only they wait just a little longer and do keep up the good work as Crowley will be most pleased upon his eventual return to see them all growing so lovely.)

It was as if Crowley had simply vanished.

Not that he would, Aziraphale was confident, without at least telling the angel first and certainly not without tempting the angel to come along.

So here he was on a lovely evening in his shop, doing his best not to have a full-blown panic at the mystery of Crowley’s whereabouts. He would never entertain the thought that he could be gone forever. Because he simply wouldn’t.

Unable to stay still any longer, Aziraphale hopped up and started his fairly new routine of pacing. And fretting. And wringing his hands with worry.

During night three of Crowley’s absence, he had reached out to feel for the demon’s presence, looking for any trail that might lead him to his friend. But he had felt nothing. Well not nothing. More like an icy chill where he should have felt warmth and familiarity. But the feeling was spread too far and too thin that Aziraphale could hardly lock onto it. The last times he had followed the feeling it had led him to a zoo, of all places, in California. But he hadn’t been able to pinpoint the source. He had marched all over and throughout that damn zoo with no glimpse of his friend.

He reached out now, tentatively, searching for the presence he had always been able to feel in the past. What he felt was a wave of ice that slapped against him and nearly threw him off his feet. He clutched at his chest and gasped. This was agony, this was a voiceless scream, as if the feeling had no other outlet _except_ ethereal.

Panting hard, Aziraphale struggled to his feet and flew to the front door. He’d try again. He had to. He’d follow the feeling and search again for the source. _He had to._ Maybe it wasn’t Crowley (oh please, God, don’t let it be Crowley) but the feeling was too anguished to be ignored. What had started as a shivering chill had suddenly exploded into an artic plunge.

“Aziraphale, good news!”

Of all the things that could have been behind the door when Aziraphale pulled it open (nearly tearing it off its hinges) the Archangel Gabriel was the last thing he would have expected to see.

He stared dumbly at the Archangel and his smug grin, the same one Crowley had recounted he had been wearing when he had forced Crowley-as-Aziraphale into the Hellfire.

“I do hope this is a bad time,” Gabriel continued, unfazed by the open incredulous on Aziraphale’s face. In fact, he seemed to be rather enjoying himself.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale finally managed.

The archangel opened his arms in a grandiose _ta-da_ motion. His smile was too wide, predatory. His eyes shone too bright, cruel.

This wasn’t right. Gabriel shouldn’t be here. Heaven had promised to stay out of their lives. To leave them alone. What did they want now?

A fresh grip of fear seized Aziraphale’s heart and he was very fortunate that his corporeal form didn’t actually need to breathe to live.

_Did they know?_

Aziraphale stumbled back and Gabriel pushed forward, right into the angel’s haven, right into his most coveted earthly possession. Gabriel glanced about and clicked his tongue in disapproval. He brushed off invisible dust from his immaculate suit and froze Aziraphale with another sharp-toothed grin.

“Awful to see you. Just really hating your face right now,” he said charmingly, his words not matching his disposition in the slightest. “I tell you, I would love to be back in Heaven right now than in your tacky shop, but I’ve been talking with Hell recently and we’ve come to a new agreement.”

“What?”

“Keep up will you? Don’t want to be here any longer than I need to be and explaining it all twice will just make it worse.” Gabriel’s grin slipped into a scowl. He restored it quickly enough but his eyes remained hard. “I won’t go into specifics but ever since _you two_ fucked everything over, Beelzebub and I have been deciding how best to teach you a lesson lest someone else from our ranks try the same.”

_They know._

Aziraphale fell against the counter and hung on for dear life. 

“But we have already faced divine punishment,” he heard himself say in a small voice far steadier than he felt at the moment.

Gabriel waved the fact away. “Yeah, we know, we can’t kill you, as wonderful as that would be.” Thank goodness for small mercies. At least Heaven and Hell were still ignorant to Aziraphale and Crowley’s swapping trick.

"But-” and here Gabriel’s face lit up again, like a bug zapper that had just claimed another winged victim, “we did figure out something just as good.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Somehow Aziraphale’s voice grew even smaller. His hands were shaking, sweaty palms threatening to slip on the counter and send him into a trembling pile on the floor.

“I wasn’t going to,” Gabriel shrugged. “This was Beelzebub’s idea. But I can’t say I don’t like it.”

Here the Archangel paused, looked at Aziraphale head-on and just basked in his terror. If Aziraphale hadn’t felt like he had chosen the right side (_our own side) _before, he certainly felt confident about his decision now.

Aziraphale didn’t feel like he had the strength to ask, didn’t feel like he had the courage to know. Luckily, Gabriel told him anyway.

“We’ve taken care of Crowley.”

That did it.

Aziraphale crumpled to the ground. Grief raged with fury in his chest and the air crackled around him dangerously. The shop shook and books tumbled from their shelves. Gabriel looked around with a mix of impressed wary though he didn’t move from his spot. But anger could only hold out for so long against the gaping void of despair that had opened in Aziraphale’s heart. Tears trickled down his cheeks and blurred his vision until all he could see was an empty eternity where not even the sun would be able to glow the same way as that fire-red hair or shine quite as brightly as that wonderful smile.

He reached out on instinct, praying that it wasn’t true, searching again for that presence, _for Crowley_, looking for any hint of a sign that Gabriel was wrong and that the world wasn’t shattering around him.

He felt it again.

The stab of cold that crashed over him, froze his tears and sent shards of ice down his spine, a feeling he could now recognize as what he was feeling himself.

“He’s not gone.”

Gabriel frowned down at the bowed head of Aziraphale, disappointed that the show was over too soon.

“No, not in the physical sense, just in the sense as you knew him.”

Aziraphale snapped his head up and locked eyes with the Archangel. This time, Gabriel took a cautionary step back.

“We’ve sealed him away,” he continued unruffled, “took his powers and his assigned corporeal form. Locked him in the form he deserves.”

“When?”

“On the day our Lord rested.”

Sunday. Crowley had been taken on Sunday. That matched up with when Aziraphale noticed he had gone missing. Sealed. Sealed for six days and 22 hours and 14 minutes. Crowley had been sealed away without his powers and with no way to reach Aziraphale for nearly a week.

“I’m sure the why is obvious,” Gabriel said nonchalantly. “Though I suppose you’ll be wanting to know where next.”

Aziraphale rose to his feet slowly, fury reigniting in his chest. The lights flickered then shattered.

Gone was Aziraphale the “lousy angel” (as Crowley so affectionately referred to him as) who wiggled and grinned as a child every time Crowley tempted him to a new treat. Gone was the angel who enjoyed sleight of hand magic for the simple and pure reason that it was fun.

This was Aziraphale the Principality, Guardian of the East Gate. And he was _angry_.

“Back down,” Gabriel commanded, voice reverberating dangerously in the small room.

“Tell me,” Aziraphale countered, eyes glowing.

Gabriel finally had the good sense to look a bit worried now. He took another step back, towards the door. Aziraphale stepped forward. Gabriel’s wings manifested with a lyrical _whoosh_ and then six elegantly white wings crowded defensively around him.

“I didn’t come for a fight,” Gabriel sneered, all feigned friendliness gone.

“Why did you come then?”

“For a show.”

Aziraphale balked at that and his own wings (honestly he hadn’t even noticed he’d revealed them) drooped slightly.

Sensing he had regained the upper hand, Gabriel slipped back into a relaxed pose, wings folding slightly behind him.

“Don’t get me wrong. Watching you pace and fret has been most entertaining, but Beelzebub decided to up the ante.”

Aziraphale waited and Gabriel visibly thrummed with excitement at his big reveal.

“What better way to punish you than to make you both completely helpless. To watch you try to change the will of Heaven and fail miserably every time, just like these humans you adore so much. To watch you struggle and, despite your best efforts, give up.” Gabriel’s feathers fluttered pleasantly. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“Where?” Aziraphale demanded.

Gabriel grinned and Aziraphale truly had to wonder how it was that this angel of Heaven could possibly look and act more demonic than his own Crowley.

Without another word, Gabriel winked out of existence, leaving behind the faint smell of holy oil and pressed linen. And a single piece of paper.

Aziraphale lunged for it, his wings knocking over shelves and small display tables in the process. He grabbed it with unrestrained desperation and read it once, twice. There was no mistake. He knew that address. He had visited it during every search.

The San Diego Zoo.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, now I know ending with "The San Diego Zoo" isn't exactly the most dramatic of cliffhangers, but it is when your demon is missing.
> 
> Seriously let me know if I should keep plugging away at this. Also typos. Hate 'em. Tell me if you see any.


End file.
